


Hindsight is 20/20

by RuArcher (Coriesocks)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Healer Blaise Zabini, Herbology, Jealousy, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Massage, Minor Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, One Night Stand, Pining, Plants, Poppy Pomfrey is too old for this shit, Professor Neville Longbottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 18:23:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14026017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/pseuds/RuArcher
Summary: Neville thought it was going to be another normal year at Hogwarts, that was until a person from his past turned up to upset the quiet life he'd built for himself.





	Hindsight is 20/20

**Author's Note:**

> All canon character, plots, and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I am not profiting from this work.

The wind whipped at Neville’s hair as he hurried up to the castle, still brushing stray bits of foliage and compost from his best set of robes. He’d known he was tempting fate by dashing back to finish off just one small task in the greenhouses _after_ having dressed for the welcome feast, but he honestly hadn’t expected it all to go so massively tit’s up. In hindsight, though, re-potting a dozen _lavandula combustibilis_ in a rush was never going to end particularly well. Luckily he had back-ups for the fifth year herbology students, along with a cautionary anecdote to inspire them to work with care.

The welcome feast was in full swing by the time he slipped through the large wooden doors, but to his great disappointment, for the first time since starting at Hogwarts himself all those years ago, he’d managed to miss the sorting ceremony. Although, on a more positive note, he’d also missed Minerva’s welcome speech, so it wasn’t all bad. He let his legs carry him towards his usual seat at the staff table on autopilot, exchanging nods and greetings with some of the older students while he tried to pick out his new Gryffindor firsties from the red and gold rabble (not a difficult task, as it turned out— they were the tiny, terrified looking bunch huddled together at the end of the table). After introducing himself and finding out a little about each of them, he continued on towards his place on the top table, smiling apologetically at Minerva and Pomona, but other than that, not really paying attention to who was sat there; his main focus now was on eating enough of that delicious looking roast before the elves swapped out the main for dessert.

He took his seat, muttering a half-hearted hello to his colleagues on either side, and surveyed the delicious spread before him, mouth watering in anticipation. It had been a long day, made even longer by the minor incident with some angry combustible lavender cuttings, but it was almost over now. All he had left to do was eat his fill, ensure his new Gryffindors were settled in the tower, and then he could sleep.

“Nev! How’s it going? It’s been bloody years. You look well— this herbology malarky must really be working for you!”

Neville froze, the fork laden with roast beef and a smidge of horseradish sauce dangling precariously from his hand, part way between his plate and his mouth. It couldn’t be him, could it? He almost couldn’t bring himself to turn around and have his worst suspicions confirmed, but that’s not who he was; he was a Gryffindor, for fuck’s sake, and a full-grown man of twenty-three years old, he could do this.

“Blaise. What are you doing here?” He said, not quite managing a smile, but not scowling at least.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m going to be working with Poppy in the hospital wing. Isn’t that great? It’ll be just like old times!”

“You’re working here? Permanently?”

“It’s just a temporary placement for now, but if it goes well, who knows! Poppy wants to spend more time with her family so I’ll be taking over half her duties while I finish off my healer training, with a view to potentially taking over permanently when she retires.”

Now he thought about it, Neville vaguely remembered Poppy talking about wanting to retire, and she would show pictures of her grandkids off to anyone who wandered past. But… “Wait, since when are you a healer?”

“I’m not sure whether I should be offended by that,” he chuckled, clearly not particularly offended. “I’m more than just a pretty face, you know. And despite what you might believe to the contrary, I haven’t just been lounging around these past few years. I was studying at _L'institut de médecine magique de Montréal_. This is my final year before I get my basic mediwizard licence, and I chose to spend it here.”

“But…why? Why here? Why not St Mungo’s? Or somewhere in Montreal?” The _‘ or literally anywhere else?’_ was heavily implied, but not spoken aloud.

“Why not? My specialisation is paediatrics, but I’m interested in all areas of healing, so when Hogwarts came up as an option for my final year, I jumped at the chance to come back here. Rather than being stuck in a particular ward, I’ll get to experience everything and as a bonus, I get to see all my old friends.”

“Oh.” When Neville didn’t offer a more elaborate answer, Blaise politely excused himself from the conversation and turned to join in with the lively discussion Harry and Draco were having on his other side.

Neville’s appetite had all but fled. He went through the motions of forking food into his mouth, but he could no longer taste it. All he could think about was Blaise sodding Zabini. All the feelings he thought were dead and buried had come flooding back, filling him with anger, confusion, and most of all hurt. How could Blaise just chatter away like nothing had happened? Did he even remember? Neville had clearly just been one in a long line of nameless, faceless fucks; nothing worth remembering. He’d known that’s how it was, when Blaise had disappeared that morning without so much as a goodbye, but for some reason, he’d clung desperately to the tiny bit of hope that had said _maybe he’s thinking of you, maybe he likes you back but is just confused_. But the hope had finally been extinguished as the years scrolled past and Blaise didn’t even deign to send a Christmas card.

As soon as Minerva dismissed the students, Neville hastened to fulfil his duties to his house. It was still strange to him, being head of Gryffindor, but when Minerva had asked him if he’d like to take over from her three years ago, he was hardly going to say no, even though he still felt like a child himself half the time. When he was finally back in the safety of his small living room, clutching a glass of fire whiskey as if it held all of life’s answers, he came up with a plan. So Blaise was now a colleague; it wasn't like he would actually have to see him outside of meal times. And if he decided to take his meals in his office at the back of greenhouse seven, or here in his quarters, then he’d hardly have to see him at all. It might be the cowardly way out, to avoid Blaise at all costs, but if he didn’t, he would be forced to face all the old feelings Blaise's stupid, handsome face stirred up. Neville would be the first to admit that it wasn’t a very good plan, but it was all he had. He would spend the year avoiding Blaise and not thinking about that one night they shared after their graduation party, and then Blaise would move on somewhere else and everything would return to normal. Perfect.

The school year hadn't even properly started and it was already not going how Neville had hoped. Surely things could only get better…?

 

* * *

 

 

After three weeks, Neville’s absence from mealtimes hadn’t passed without notice, but since he was doing such a good job of avoiding communal staff areas, he only had to put up with Pomona’s concerned glances and offers of ‘tea and a natter’ so he counted it as a win. It wasn't like he didn’t have plenty to keep him busy in the greenhouses, especially at this time of year, so it was perfectly reasonable for him to hole himself away. Whether this excuse would hold for the rest of the school year remained to be seen.

Neville glanced up at the sky, which was just about visible beyond the grime-coated glass roof, before turning his attention back to the dittany that needed harvesting for Draco. The sun had already dipped below the distant mountains and the clouds were painted in deep pinks and oranges so dinner was probably drawing to a close. He decided he’d give it another hour before heading over to the kitchens to grab some sandwiches; most teachers should have slunk back to their quarters, or down the hill to the pub by then. With his favourite pair of secateurs, he reached into the unwieldy mass of dittany to select the best shoots. Draco had specified he wanted young stems with a generous leaf to stem ratio, and Neville was loath to go against him. Draco had become something of a friend in the four years they’d worked together, but the man could still throw one hell of a hissy fit if things weren’t ‘just so’.

“He lives! I almost believed your presence at the welcome feast was a figment of my imagination.”

Startled by Blaise’s sudden appearance, Neville tried to straighten up and turn around at the same time as his hand squeezed the handles of the secateurs.

“Shit! Ah! Fucking bloody bollocks,” Neville spat as he managed to close the blades around his finger instead of a plant stem. He dropped the secateurs and brought his injured hand to his mouth.

“Woah, woah, sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! Here,” Blaise quickly closed the distance between them, wand already in hand, and gently pulled Neville’s hand towards him. “Do you mind if I…” he motioned with his wand to the cut which was bleeding steadily, deep red lines trailing across his hand and dripping onto the floor. Neville nodded his assent, words currently beyond his capabilities.

Blaise smiled briefly and muttered a couple of incantations while drawing his wand slowly along the length of the cut. Neville could barely breathe. He tried desperately to focus on anything except the soft warmth of Blaise’s skin where his hand still cradled Neville’s and the intensity of his gaze as he inspected the now-healing wound. He wanted so dearly to hate Blaise for using him then leaving him so coldly that morning all those years ago, but he could already feel his resolve cracking. Merlin, but he was so beautiful— it was no wonder he couldn’t think straight around him!

“Nev?”

“Huh?”

“I said, it doesn’t look like it was a deep cut, and I don’t think you nicked a tendon or anything, but you might want to pop over to the hospital wing and get some dittany salve to prevent scarring.”

“Oh, right. Okay.”

“Right. Well. I guess I’ll see you around. Or not, since you’re always hiding away down here,” Blaise said with a chuckle.

Neville watched his back as walked away, absently rubbing his hand where Blaise had so recently been touching it. He should go back to his pruning, but he wasn’t sure if his limbs would function properly right now; everything felt a bit loose and wobbly, except his chest which was uncomfortably tight. So much for avoiding Blaise. Had he turned up at the greenhouses for no other reason than to surprise him into nearly pruning half his fingers off?

“Wait, Blaise,” Neville called, just before Blaise disappeared through the door at the end of the greenhouse.

“Yeah?” He replied, a strangely hopeful expression flickering across his face before being replaced by his usual mask of haughty indifference.

“What did you come here for?”

“Oh, shit. Ha.” Blaise dragged a hand over his face and grinned sheepishly. “Ah, Draco wanted me to pick something up. Apparently, there are a couple of boxes of ingredients you promised him?”

“Oh yeah, they’re on the desk over there,” he said indicating the two overflowing crates of various herbs and plant cuttings Draco had requested in order to restock his supply cupboard in the potions classroom. “Tell him I’ll drop the dittany around tomorrow— it’s not quite ready.”

Blaise levitated the crates and bid Neville goodbye for the second time, the crates bobbing ahead of him as he strolled out into the twilight. Neville gave it five minutes to ensure he was definitely gone, then finally allowed his legs to collapse out from beneath him as he slid to the floor and hid his face in his hands. Three weeks. He’d lasted three weeks, and the rest of the school year still loomed ahead. How was he going to survive?

 

* * *

 

 

Aside from a few occasions where they passed in the corridor, and several unavoidable shared mealtimes (shared in as much as they were sat at the same table, but thankfully no longer beside each other, Neville had made sure of that), Neville managed to go almost a month without trading more than a few words with Blaise. It wasn’t the complete avoidance he’d been hoping for, but it was better than expected, especially with people like Harry, Draco, and even Luna, (sweet, innocent Luna— how could she?!) trying to drag him into social situations where Blaise would undoubtedly be.

Halloween was now little more than a week away and the autumnal Scottish weather had recently been testing everyone's limits; for a while, it had seemed like the rain would never end. But finally, the clouds had all been swept away by a cold, sharp wind tinged with the approaching winter, and the sun was shining brightly. Neville allowed his attention to stray slightly from his class of second-year Slytherin and Hufflepuff students, as he gazed at the castle grounds through the glass walls of the greenhouse. Greenhouse two had a perfect view of the lake if he stood at the far corner and leant back slightly on the table of Mandrakes. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a ‘perfect’ view, but it was better than the view from his office.

He cast a cautious eye back to his students. They didn’t seem to be having any problems, and neither did he expect them to; they were only supposed to be working on their identification sketches, and none of them had proven to be particularly rambunctious (the troublemakers in their year all seemed to have been sorted into Gryffindor), so he let his attention wander again. Inevitably, his thoughts went to Blaise; drifting back to happier times when they’d just been getting to know each other during eighth year and Blaise hadn’t yet ripped his heart out and smashed it into pieces.

Slowly he became aware of a change in the sounds coming from his students, the noise level rising as panicked shouts filled the greenhouse.

“OH MY GOD! SIR!”  
“DELILAH AND SEBBY ARE…ARE…”  
“THEY’RE SPROUTING, SIR!”

Neville spun round to face his class, and his stomach fell as he took in the scene unfolding around him. “What the…!? Shi- …ugar! Sugar! What happened?” McGonagall was going to have his arse for this…

“Antoninus dared us to do it! He said Hufflepuffs weren’t brave!” Delilah wailed, while a vine snaked out from behind her left ear and started trailing down her arm.

“So you thought you’d open a box that’s clearly labelled ‘DANGER: DO NOT OPEN’? You know what, nevermind. Elspeth! You and Parker are in charge, I’m taking these two to Pomfrey. If I find you’ve done anything other than sketch in your notepads before I get back, I’m taking 10 house points from each one of you!” Hopefully, that would be enough of an incentive…they didn’t have to know he would never actually be so cruel. “Right, you two, let’s go.”

Blaise had been the furthest thing from his mind while escorting two terrified second years to the hospital wing, but he was quickly reminded of his existence when he pushed open the doors to the ward.

“Neville! What a lovely surprise! How can I… Oh!” He stopped abruptly upon seeing the pair of walking, sobbing, grassy mounds cowering behind Neville. “Well, well, well, what have we here? Has Professor Longbottom been experimenting in the greenhouses again?”

“I…what? No! It was…No!” Neville spluttered.

“Joking, joking! Come on now you two. Delilah Cragglethorn and Sebastian Park, if I’m not much mistaken?”

The quietly whimpering shrubs both nodded, their gazes fixed on the floor. Neville hastily explained, as best he could, what had happened, while Blaise swept forward and coaxed the pair onto a bed, then he stood back and watched Blaise work. He could probably head back to the greenhouses now. In fact, he was fairly certain he _should_ head back since he’d left over twenty twelve and thirteen year olds unsupervised, but this was the first time, other than when Blaise had healed his hand, that he’d seen Blaise work and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d always pegged Blaise as a bit of an over-confident, self-serving prick, which was in large part why he’d been so surprised at his choice of profession. His immediate thought had been that Blaise was in it for the glory, but watching him work with such care and compassion— expertly soothing two terrified children while calmly determining the problem and working towards a solution —it was clear that Blaise not only loved what he did, but he was damn good at it too.

Neville was well and truly screwed. If Blaise kept proving that he wasn’t a complete arsehole, how was Neville supposed to keep hating him?

 

* * *

 

Neville had been surprised to only receive mild ticking off from Minerva after having allowed two of his students to turn into walking plants; it was much less of a dressing down than he was expecting. But what he hadn’t expected was the look of concern in her eyes when she asked how he felt he was coping with increased teaching responsibilities; how could he tell her he was just a bit distracted with having to spend all his time hiding from a certain new hire? He sighed, looking up from the tray of seedlings he was trying to re-pot in preparation for his first years, and gazed out of the window. It was hard to believe it was the first week of November already; time seemed to be both whipping by at a rate of knots, and dragging its heels. With his eyes, he traced the slope of the grounds up from the forest. The bright late-morning sunlight made everything look crisp and clear, none of the misty, damp haze of the last few days remaining. The grass, the trees, the shirtless man, the stone of the castle wall; everything looked sharp and fresh, and… Wait.

Neville replayed what he had just seen— why was there a shirtless man on the school grounds and, more importantly, who was it? He craned his neck to get a better look, all thoughts of his current duties squashed to the back of his mind. On some level, he knew right away that it was Blaise— no one else would have the balls to be outside, shirtless, in autumn —but he had to make absolutely sure, so he continued to watch closely as Blaise moved slowly between different poses, almost like he was playing a very slow, solo game of musical statues. Even from this distance, he could see Blaise’s muscles tense and ripple as he moved slowly, gracefully, his strength clearly evident in the way he could hold the poses. Neville was mesmerized. He’d never really seen Blaise shirtless before. Not properly anyway, and definitely not sober. That night they’d spent together, he’d been far too drunk to take in silly little details like the curve of his bicep or dusting of tight black curls on his chest.

As Blaise slowly rotated on one leg, his body moving fluidly into the next pose, Neville leaned to the side to get a better look. He lifted onto the balls of his feet and leant most of his weight on his right arm as he craned his neck to peer through the foliage of the clematis that trailed up the inside wall of the greenhouse. Once again, Blaise shifted, so Neville shuffled a few inches to the side, stepping up onto an upturned box without taking his eyes off the spectacle. How was Blaise not freezing cold? What sort of imbecile exercised shirtless in the highlands, in almost-winter?

A muffled creak was the only warning Neville got before one side of the wooden box crumpled beneath his weight. He yelped and flailed his arms wildly as momentum carried him sideways, tumbling him into a rickety table that sat perpendicular to where he’d been working. He managed to catch hold of the edge with his hands, saving himself from falling to the floor, then there were several tense seconds where the table juddered and everything on it wobbled, dislodged leaves fluttering silently to the floor. There was just enough time for Neville to mentally congratulate himself for a lucky escape, but as he slowly tried to push himself off the table, its legs gave way and Neville, along with everything that had been on the table, crashed to the floor.

Neville lay there in a sort of stunned silence as the dust settled around him. He just needed a few minutes to gather his breath and the scraps of his dignity, then he would get up. Fucking Blaise. This was his fault. If he hadn’t been slow-motion prancing around, half-naked, outside of the greenhouses then Neville wouldn’t now be lying on the floor, covered in dirt, leaves, and whatever else had been on the table (probably several weeks’ worth of half drunk cups of tea). Carefully, he started to catalogue his extremities, checking for injury before he attempted to stand. Nothing felt broken, he decided, tentatively pushing himself up to his knees…and FUCK. What was that strange burning sensation prickling up his leg? He looked over his shoulder, slightly worried about what he would see, but in the next instant, he knew with sickening certainty, just which plants had been on that table. Shit. Before he could do anything about the situation though, the door to the greenhouse burst open.

“Neville?? Merlin! Are you okay? I heard you shout.”

Fucking Blaise. Why did it always have to be Fucking Blaise Zabini?

“Ah, yeah. Don’t worry. Just tripped. It’s fine, I’m fine.” Neville tried to stand up, but his left leg was numb from the knee down and his thigh felt like it was being devoured by fire from the inside out, so all he managed was a brief wobble before he pitched forwards. Into Blaise sodding Zabini’s open arms. The same Blaise Zabini who was still very shirtless, and moist with sweat. Balls.

“What happened? Here. Sit on this.” Blaise transfigured an empty flower pot into a high backed armchair that was far more showy than necessary, and slowly guided Neville into it.

“I told you— I tripped, and then fell into this table. It’s fine. I just need a few minutes. Go back to your weird dancing. I’ll be fine.” Perhaps if he said ‘fine’ enough times, it would become true. Besides, his brain had ceased to function properly in the face of Blaise’s very naked chest, so it wasn’t his fault his vocabulary was suffering.

“Tai Chi. And you’re not fine. Your leg is smoking. Why is your leg smoking?”

“Oh. Shit.” Neville scrunched his face up as he looked down and saw that yes, his leg was currently smoking— unsurprising since it felt like he’d left it soaking in lava (at least, the bits that weren’t numb felt like that). He wasn’t too concerned… He knew exactly which plant had caused this, and he also knew that the effects weren’t permanent and that after a couple of days he should be right as rain again. But he also knew that the numbness would slowly spread through his body, preceded by fiery heat, and that it would in all likelihood be very, very unpleasant for at least twenty-four hours. If he was lucky.

“Nev?” Blaise prompted, his brow furrowed with worry. “Do you have any idea what’s caused this? Was it a spell? Or a plant? I don’t want to worry you, but we probably need to get you to St Mungo's...”

“Ah, no! That won’t be… It was that leafy bastard there,” he nodded to indicate an innocent looking pot plant with wide, dark green leaves and bright purple flowers, laying on its side right where Neville had fallen. “It releases a sort of oozy paste when it’s agitated. I must have got some on my leg when I fell. It’s not deadly, just painful. But I’m fine! Honestly. I just need to—” the words caught in Neville’s throat as Blaise knelt before him and, with a determined glare, sliced through the material of his trousers with a deft swish of his wand. Neville then watched in horror as his trouser leg slid to the floor, exposing his pale skin from his ankle to the hem of his bright orange boxers.

“Was that strictly necessary,” he ground out, acute embarrassment working rather effectively to dull the pain.

Blaise grinned up at him with far more humour than was appropriate, before snapping his attention back to Neville’s leg, which, now he could actually see it, was looking rather mottled and not at all healthy.

“Okay, since you’re clearly not fine, and I’m not sure enough of the antidote to proceed without confirmation from Poppy, I’m going to cast a generic cooling spell then pop your leg in a stasis charm so we can get you to the hospital wing.”

Neville sighed with relief as the cooling spell washed over his skin, but the relief was short-lived.

“Come on then— put your arm around my shoulders and I’ll help you walk.”

“Er, what?”

“Well, I could levitate you, but I thought this way afforded you a bit more dignity.”

“Fine. Just… Don’t you want to put on a shirt or something?”

“I thought you liked it when I got my kit off,” he smirked, and Neville’s heart did a weird fluttery thing in his chest. He felt his face heat as his mouth flapped uselessly, words once again having failed him.

“Kidding, kidding. Oh my gosh, you’re so easy to wind up. Never change, Nev, you beautiful oaf. Don’t worry - my shirt’s out there. I’ll grab it on the way past. Don’t want to traumatize any impressionable minds with my godlike beauty.”

“Ungh.”

The walk to the hospital wing was pure torture. Blaise insisted on assisting him, while Neville did his best to maintain as much distance between them as possible, while still using him to lean against.

“I don’t bite, you know.” Blaise chuckled after Neville almost tumbled down the stairs for the third time. Neville blanched and glared at the stone steps, daring them to trip him again. He wished he knew what was running through Blaise’s head. Did he even hear half the things he said? How could he be so flippant?

“Neville? If I’ve done something to upset you, then just tell me and we can work past it. I thought we were friends, but I’ve been getting the feeling that you’re not that happy to have me here.”

“You know what, I can go the rest of the way myself.”

“What?”

“Yeah, maybe I thought we were friends for a bit at school, but if you don’t know what you did, then it was clearly one-sided. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get to the hospital wing and get this sorted before my afternoon classes.” Neville lurched towards the banister and proceeded to awkwardly hobble-hop-shuffle away from Blaise. He refused to turn and look at him, and was eternally grateful that Blaise didn’t try to follow him. Maybe he wasn’t a complete shit.

 

* * *

 

“Here you are, Draco. One box of shrivelfigs ready for whatever nefarious deed you plan to use them for.”

Draco looked up from where he was hunched over a mountain of what looked to be student essays and smiled. “Thanks, just, ah, pop it on the side there. Is seventh-year project work nefarious enough for you?”

“Eh, I’m sure whatever you’ve got planned is well-deserved.”

“Don’t remind me. Only last week I caught Yulia and Jacob trying to pocket a bottle of veritaserum they must have pilfered from my private stores.”

“Oh Merlin. I’ve heard they use it for truth or dare. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than stealing fire whiskey,” Neville laughed. “Righty-ho, I’d best be off.”

“Just a minute, before you scurry off back to your garden shed, Harry and I were wondering whether you’ll be joining us in the pub this Saturday?”

Neville’s heart sank. He really did want to go because he desperately missed spending time with his friends, but Blaise would obviously be there so he was resigned to spend another Saturday night alone. “Ah, I don’t know. I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake Neville. Literally no one is that busy. Even Granger tears herself away from the books sometimes.”

“Yeah, but … the plants… you know? I can’t…”

Draco huffed exasperatedly and Neville could tell he was trying hard not to roll his eyes. “Blaise won’t be there. He’s at some mediwizard conference in Paris, the bastard.”

“He is? I mean, not that I care whether he’s there or not, or whatever.”

“I’m not stupid, Longbottom. What’s really going on? Are you going to hide in the greenhouses indefinitely?”

“There’s nothing going on! It’s fine. I’ve just got a lot on.”

“Whatever. Suit yourself. Look, I know Blaise was a bit of a cock at school, but he’s changed a lot. We all have. If you can give someone like me a second chance, I don’t see why you can’t afford him the same.”

Neville frowned; when Draco put it like that, it did seem rather silly that he still couldn’t let go of his grudge…but Draco had never fucked him and then fled the country so it was hardly comparable... “It’s complicated, okay? I have to go. Thanks for the invite,” he muttered, rushing out of the classroom to escape Draco's knowing glare.

 

* * *

 

Draco’s words weighed heavily on Neville’s mind over the following weeks. He was determined to believe that Blaise was still the same arrogant cock he’d been all those years ago when he’d fooled Neville into thinking he was someone special before ripping out his heart and crushing it with his abrupt departure. But even if Blaise really had changed, Neville wasn’t sure he could bring himself to forgive him. Perhaps if Blaise had made some attempt to contact him and apologise for leaving, or even if he’d just acknowledged the fact that they had, at one point been close, and that leaving someone after fucking them raw was a bit of a dick move. But no. Clearly, Blaise couldn’t have changed all that much; his silence confirmed for Neville that he still thought it was acceptable behaviour.

It wasn’t that Neville cared all that much about having been a one night stand to Blaise— he knew it wasn’t Blaise’s fault that he’d read too much into their relationship and had gotten too attached. It was more the fact that he’d believed they were friends, that they understood each other and maybe even connected on some level, but after Blaise had left without even saying goodbye, it made Neville feel their whole friendship had been an act to get into his pants, which just, well, felt a bit shit really. So he continued to play his avoidance game as Christmas drew steadily closer. It was now more habitual than anything else to stay hidden in the greenhouses late into the evening, only popping out briefly to grab some food before scurrying back to his plants or seeking shelter in his room. It had gotten to the point now that none of his friends even bothered asking him to join them for their Saturday night pub sessions or weekend day trips. Neville had been replaced by Blaise, and it hurt, but he knew it was completely his own doing, so he didn't even feel like he could complain about it.

 

* * *

 

Everything was Fine. Fine with a bloody great capital ‘F’. Neville was adjusting to life as an anti-social hermit, and he no longer cared that his friends had replaced him with Blaise because look at him! Neville would have dropped himself for Blaise too given half a chance. With that frame of mind, it really shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did when he saw the usual gang wandering through the entrance hall on their way to the pub one Saturday while he skulked in the shadows and tried to avoid notice.

As it turned out though, it was hard to go unnoticed when over six foot tall and wearing a bright green duffle coat (thanks, Gran). And so he’d had to dance through the motions of receiving and politely declining a pity-invite while trying to avoid looking at Blaise, who spent the whole time in a whispered, giggly conversation with bloody Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass and didn’t once even glance in Neville’s direction. And what were those two hags even doing here?

Following that brief yet intensely awkward interaction, Neville slunk off to his greenhouses, soggy sandwich grasped in one hand, bottle of firewhiskey in the other and was now definitely not brooding or thinking about what Parkinson and Greengrass had that made them so special. He didn’t care where Blaise chose to stick his dick. It was none of his business. If Blaise wanted to fool around with a couple of bitchy Slytherins, that was his prerogative. Neville was fine, FINE, alone with his shrivelfigs, his mimbulus mimbletonias, and his exploding bloody lavender bushes.

He paced the length of greenhouse seven, prodding foliage here and there, and snipping off errant branches and vines with a swift flick of his wand. On some level, he was aware that he was being ridiculous, and that he should probably go back to his room and sleep it off, but the more he drank, the more frustrated he got, and the more frustrated he got the less he could sit still. He couldn’t just twiddle his thumbs waiting for Blaise and the others to return, not that he cared when or if they returned, so he was left with pacing and pruning in an attempt to vent.

However, as the night progressed, his accuracy with his diffindo was starting to suffer. Several times now, he’d accidentally nicked the edge of a leaf or gouged a branch when usually his pruning was spot on. Even through the haze of whiskey, he could feel the atmosphere tense as some of the more sentient plants realised they were in danger of getting more than an unwanted haircut. He uttered what was supposed to be a few soothing sounds, but continued his petulant stomping through the greenhouse, glad that there was no one around to witness his little tantrum. Fucking Blaise. He shoved roughly past a plant with large, leathery leaves, only realising his error a split-second before excruciating pain tore through him, from his lower back and down his legs. The force of the impact threw him forwards and he lay on the floor for several moments, hands fisted on the rough stones, and face screwed up while he breathed through wave after wave of pain-induced nausea.

When he eventually felt able to move without emptying his stomach contents all over the floor, he tentatively raised his head up and peered over his shoulder. He had been fairly sure he knew what had happened, so it wasn’t exactly a surprise to see his back, arse, and legs peppered with bright red needles, but even so, the sight of all those spines and the knowledge that each one was hooked into his flesh sent another wave of nausea crashing through him and he let his head fall to the floor. He huffed with resignation, knowing he should try and get to the hospital wing. Blaise was probably still out on the piss, or occupied with shagging Pansy or Daphne, so he probably wouldn’t be there, but there was always a chance…and he couldn’t face him like this.

Perhaps it was the firewhiskey, or perhaps even his Gryffindor bullheadedness, but Neville decided he would deal with his situation on his own. He knew the plant wasn’t poisonous, not dangerously so anyway— it shot the spines out with the intention of scaring attackers off, not killing them —so all he needed to do was pluck them all from his skin, then maybe grab some cream from Pomfrey in the morning to get rid of the stinging, burning, skin-peeling-off sensation. With a great deal of difficulty, and much huffing and cursing, he eventually managed to get up from the floor and bend over the nearest worktop. He reached behind and slowly started the process of unhooking the barbs from his flesh. He had briefly toyed with the idea of trying to vanish the barbs, but quickly scrapped that thought; he wouldn’t want to attempt that spell while sober, let alone after having spent all evening drinking— there was too much chance of accidentally vanishing something important.

“Neville? You in here? Ah, there you are. We need to talk and— What the fuck?”

At the sound of Blaise’s voice, Neville didn’t even try to hide his despair and he groaned while not-so-subtly smacking his head on the worktop. Of all the people to walk in and see him bent over and drunkenly pulling spikes out of his arse, it would have to be Blaise sodding Zabini.

 

* * *

 

Neville had to hand it to him; once Blaise had recovered from the shock of seeing him in his current predicament and realised that Neville was actually injured and in quite a lot of pain, he was every bit the consummate medical professional. He calmly assessed the situation— listening to Neville’s hastily cobbled together excuse about why he was drinking alone and upsetting the greenery without a hint of judgement —then talked Neville through his proposed solution, and finally, on Neville’s reluctant OK, he proceeded to vanish Neville’s trousers and underwear, and started on extracting the barbs. Throughout all of this, Neville could barely lift his face from the worktop. Blaise might be treating him as he would any patient, but that didn’t stop Neville from feeling absolutely mortified. He bit down hard on his fist to divert his attention away from the thought of his currently very naked arse that was inches away from Blaise’s face and wished for a swift, painless death.

Almost half an hour passed before Blaise’s professional mask started to slip. If Neville hadn’t felt so humiliated and angry, he would have been impressed by his restraint.

“You know, this view brings back memories,” Blaise said lightly, the smirk clear even though Neville couldn’t bring himself to look.

“Don’t,” he growled. Why was Blaise bringing this up now? He’d not acknowledged their night together ONCE since turning up out of the blue over three months ago, but he apparently thought Neville being half-naked, in severe pain, and bent over a table was the appropriate time?

“What? Don’t tell me you forgot?” Blaise asked innocently. “Wow, way to make a guy feel special Nev.” He chuckled, seemingly ignorant of Neville’s simmering rage.

All the hurt he’d squashed down and tried to ignore came flooding back and hit Neville squarely in the chest. He was done with Blaise’s shit. “Forgot?” He spat. “I wish I could forget. I’ve wanted nothing more for the last five fucking years to forget you ever bloody existed, but no. You have to come here, to my place of work, and walk around like you’re god’s gift, stealing my friends, fucking up my life…” He faltered, his voice wavering. He refused to cry. Stupid firewhiskey.

“What do you mean?” Blaise asked, sounding confused. Neville sensed rather than saw him stand up, but he took this to mean that Blaise was done with pulling barbs from his arse, so he grabbed a conveniently located apron, holding it in front of his groin, and spun round to face Blaise for the first time.

“You left!” He yelled, jabbing his finger in Blaise’s chest. “You fucked me and you left without even a thank you or a see-you-later! I waited for months for you to send an owl or firecall or something, but there was nothing. Not a word. Gods, I just… I feel so stupid. I thought we were friends,” he finished quietly, anger ebbing away to be replaced by hurt.

“Oh, Merlin. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I…shit. Of course we were friends! Don’t you ever doubt that, Neville. Never. ”

“Yeah? Well, you have a funny way of showing it. Look, I don’t care anymore. I’d rather we just go back to pretending that night, that entire year, never happened.” Neville frowned at the ground. He was tired, his arse hurt, and his head was starting to pound as the hangover got an early start. He let out a frustrated breath. “You should go. I’m fine now and I’ve things to do,” he said, tugging his sweater down to try and cover his arse, then turning back to the worktop and attempting to look busy. Blaise didn’t sound like he was going anywhere, but Neville hoped it was obvious he was done talking to him.

“Neville, please, I never meant to hurt you,” Blaise said quietly to Neville’s back after a few tense seconds had passed. “I was a twat back then, and...well, to be honest, I thought you would rather I left and never spoke of it. I thought I’d taken advantage of you and that you’d hate me once you realised what we’d done. Seriously, I hated myself for a long time for that. I half expected Harry Potter to come storming along to avenge your honour or something,” he said with a nervous titter.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you’d bothered to owl, you would have known that you didn’t. Please, just go. This night’s been embarrassing enough without being forced to rehash the past too.”

Blaise sighed, finally appearing to get the message that Neville was through talking. “Okay… just…I need you know that I really am sorry with the way things ended up.”

Neville listened closely as his footsteps moved away. They paused for a moment and Blaise spoke. “Um, by the way, if your skin starts to itch or feel sore, you should swing by the hospital wing. Pomfrey can take a look if you don’t want me to, but you will probably need some ointment to reduce the, ah, inflammation.”

Neville nodded without turning around and finally heard the familiar scraping creak of the heavy iron framed door being shoved open. “I’ve thought about you a lot, you know. I don’t regret what we did, but leaving you that morning was definitely one of my... poorer choices. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if you’re amenable, I’d very much like us to start over, become friends again. Maybe we can grab a drink sometime?”

Neville didn’t answer, and judging by the sound of the door closing, Blaise clearly wasn’t expecting him to. Neville sunk into the closest chair and curled over himself, scrubbing his face with his hands. Fucking Blaise Zabini. Making him feel things. He winced as pain shot down his legs; there was a chance he’d be popping into the hospital wing sooner rather than later, but he wasn’t sure whether he was more uneasy at the thought of Pomfrey massaging ointment into his arse, or Blaise.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the pain had turned from a general throbbing to a prickly, burning sensation whenever anything brushed against his skin, which was quite problematic since he needed to wear trousers for work. Realising he had very little choice, Neville swallowed his pride, what little he had left anyway, and slunk down to the hospital wing, hoping to grab some ointment before breakfast. He’d gotten very little sleep, what with the pain and the humiliation, and his brain would not stop replaying the interaction with Blaise in excruciating detail. Every word had Blaise said was etched into his memory. Blaise was sorry he’d left. He hadn’t regretted that night. He wanted to be friends again. Neville only wished he knew what _he_ wanted. Could he forgive Blaise? Could they really be friends again? He hated himself for the hope that now sparked through his body — Blaise was right, he didn’t deserve Neville’s forgiveness, but Neville knew he was weak, and as much as he wanted to hate Blaise, to punish him for the months of pain and hurt and confusion, he also desperately longed to have their friendship back.

Before he knew it, the large stone arch of the hospital wing loomed ahead. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, still undecided as to who he wanted to see. If Pomfrey was there, he’d have to explain what had happened, but if Blaise was there…he’d have to see Blaise.

A sharp twinge in his left leg spurred him forwards, and he tentatively pushed the door open. For a few moments, he didn’t see anyone other than a lone student asleep in one of the beds so he headed towards Pomfrey’s office and knocked nervously on the door before he could talk himself out of it.

“It’s open!” Blaise’s deep voice bellowed out from behind the door. Neville’s stomach curdled at the sound and he almost fled. Maybe Pomfrey was the better option after all. Was it too late to leg it.…? He steeled himself against the potential confrontation. He would sweep all his conflicting feelings, all his humiliation and hurt and anger, under the carpet and just act like there was nothing wrong. Blaise was a healer, and a damn good one. He would be professionally detached and Neville would close his eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening. With a determined nod, Neville opened the door and edged forwards to accept his fate.

Blaise was sat hunched over the desk in the corner of the room, paper and books covering the entire surface, scribbling away furiously with what Neville recognised as a muggle biro.

“Just a minute,” Blaise muttered, without looking up. Neville shuffled awkwardly in the doorway and tried to ignore the little voice in his head which told him there was still time to flee if he was quick. He cleared his throat, desperate to hasten the inevitable, and Blaise’s head whipped up, the pen clattering to the desk. The look of surprise was quickly replaced by concern.

“Everything okay?” He asked cautiously.

“Um, you mentioned yesterday about some, uh... ointment?”

“Oh, right! Yes, of course. Let me just grab some...” Blaise stood and looked ready to leap into action, but then he paused, uncertainty flickering across his face. “Or… would you rather I go and find Poppy?”

“It’s okay. If it’s all the same to you, I’d really like the burning to stop as soon as possible.”

“Shit, is it that bad? I knew I shouldn’t have left you. Damn.” Blaise looked genuinely worried as he herded Neville out of the office and towards the nearest bed, switching seamlessly back to his professional persona. “Here, take this bed. Strip your trousers and pants off then lie face down for me. You can cover yourself with this sheet for modesty if you like. I’ll just go grab the ointment.” With a flick of his wand, the curtains swished closed around the bed.

Neville stood motionless for a few moments, staring at the gap In the curtains through which Blaise had disappeared. This wasn’t at all how he’d imagined things going. Aside from the brief wobble in his ‘healer’ mask when Neville had turned up, it didn’t appear as though their…arguement? confrontation?… just a few hours ago had affected Blaise at all. Had it even happened? Maybe that plant was more toxic than Neville thought, and it had caused him to hallucinate Blaise’s presence…

“Are you decent?” Blaise called through the curtain.

Shit. Too much thinking, not enough stripping. “Ah, just a moment!” He replied, hastily shucking his trousers and pants with only minimal stumbling. He arranged himself on the bed, face-down as requested, and with the sheet wrapped around him. “Okay. Ready,” he called out, swallowing thickly as he heard the swish of the curtain. He hugged the pillow and pressed his face into it. Maybe he’d suffocate and wouldn’t have to live with the embarrassment of having Blaise inspect his arse for the— Oh!

The ointment was cool and slick against his skin, but it quickly warmed under Blaise’s ministrations. Strong, confident hands massaged the tops of his thighs, one by one and Merlin, it felt good. Neville’s eyes fluttered closed as he bit down hard into the pillow and tried vainly to remain silent. It wouldn’t do to start groaning but— unnghhhh —the pressure, the heat, the prickling chill as a light breeze cooled the ointment on his skin, it all felt so perfect, and it had been so, so long since anyone had touched him. Especially there. It all felt so intimate. He could feel each one of Blaise’s fingers as they moved, perfectly coordinated, in strong circular motions; up one leg, teasingly close to his arse, before switching to the other leg and repeating the action. God, he’d missed Blaise. This was torture. He tried to suppress a shudder as Blaise’s fingers trailed along his arse crack, dipping dangerously low between his legs, the touch suddenly delicate, almost teasing. Neville’s prick, which had started to take an interest in events the moment Blaise had instructed him to strip, now pressed uncomfortably into the starchy sheets beneath him; he wanted to move and adjust himself, but he was worried he’d let a moan escape. Blaise’s touch sent sparks of desire rippling through him, each movement now causing his prick to throb, aching where it was wedged beneath him.

All too soon, but simultaneously, not soon enough, Blaise’s perfect hands left his body and he felt the light, tickling pressure of a sheet being draped over his lower half. His skin was on fire, but not in the painful way it had been half an hour ago. This fire burned within every cell, every inch of his body screaming out for more. How had he ever been able to convince himself he was over Blaise Zabini? No one had ever made him feel like this.

“Okay, you’re all done!” Blaise said brightly, ripping Neville from his spiralling thoughts. He sounded slightly out of breath, and overly cheery like he was trying to convince himself of something. “You might need to come back if the burning starts up again, but you should be good for now.”

“Er, great, thanks. Feels loads better.”

“Cool. Glad I could help.”

There were a few moments where no one spoke, a strange tension seemed to hang in the air between them.

“So, uh, I guess I’ll just get up and get dressed…?” Neville didn’t move, couldn’t move, as he didn’t want to risk taking out someone’s eye with his rock hard erection.

“Hmm? Oh, right! Yes, of course. I’ll just, ah…” he indicated over his shoulder with a thumb as he stumbled backwards, reaching blindly for the curtain.

As soon as Blaise disappeared, Neville hurriedly sat up, biting back a groan of relief as his prick was freed from its awkward position. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and bunched the sheet up in his lap while gathered his thoughts and waited for things to…soften…enough so he could get dressed. His heart raced, pounding in his chest, and his head was full of Blaise Blaise Blaise. He was so screwed. He couldn’t let things continue between them the way the way they had been. No matter what the outcome, he needed to know whether there was any chance of things happening between them. If Blaise said no, then he would accept that and move on, but if he said yes…

“Wait, Blaise? You still there?” Neville called, his mouth running off before his brain could catch up.

“Yes?” Blaise said, slipping back between the curtains moments later and closing the gap behind him. His eyes were bright and his temples were damp with sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Neville blurted. “Sorry for avoiding you, sorry for thinking you were still the same as before, sorry for believing you thought nothing of me.”

“What? No! I’m the one who should be sorry. I behaved terribly. I should never have left you, but I was…I don’t know…scared? And a massive idiot, to be fair.”

Neville studied his face, checking for signs of insincerity. He didn’t miss the way Blaise’s eyes flicked down to his mouth, or the tip of his tongue as it slid along his lower lip. It gave him the courage he needed to reach out and take one of Blaise’s hands in his own. One of those strong, perfect, hands that shot sparks through his veins with every touch to his skin. Blaise curled his fingers around Neville’s, stepping forwards until he was stood between Neville’s legs.

He could feel Blaise’s breath whiffling through his fringe, but Neville still couldn’t look away from where their hands were joined; his calloused, scarred, sun-bronzed hand managing to look pale against Blaise’s soft, dark skin. Blaise’s free hand moved to Neville’s neck, long fingers carding through his hair before settling at his nape, gently rubbing circles on his skin. With gentle pressure, he tilted Neville’s head up and Neville found himself struck motionless by the intensity of Blaise’s gaze. His face drew closer, but Neville couldn’t tell who moved, maybe they both did. It was as if time stood still. Nothing existed at this moment except deep brown eyes and soft lips. Their noses brushed against each other, and Neville felt the barest hint of a touch to his lips, but neither of them moved to close the distance, so they hung there, frozen in the moment, both barely touching, breath mingling. At some point, Neville closed his eyes, and his whole being was focused on those barely-there touches; noses bumping, lips grazing, foreheads nudging.

Slowly, but with great inevitability, the touches began to linger. The distance reduced until there was barely a hairs-breadth between them. And then suddenly the damn was broken and they surged towards each other. Neville released his hand from Blaise’s and hooked it around the other man’s neck, pulling him down and deepening the kiss, while his other hand gripped his hips, dragging Blaise more snuggly into the V of his legs. Blaise’s hands were everywhere, scraping through his hair one moment, running down his back the next, as if he couldn’t decide which part of Neville he wanted to touch most. Neville’s hand snaked further around Blaise’s hips, before settling on his arse and pulling him closer. They rutted together like teenagers, the sheet that had been vaguely preserving Neville’s modesty now discarded to the side. He could feel the heat building in his gut already— it had been so very long since he’d done anything like this —as he skated along the edge of his orgasm, torn between embracing it and not wanting to finish too soon, but very much doubting he would have much say in things.

“Healer Zabini! Professor Longbottom!” A voice shrieked. Blaise leapt back and Neville yanked the sheet over his groin, gripping it tightly with trembling hands, his chest heaving. Poppy Pomfrey glared at them from the gap in the curtains “I don’t know what they taught you at your fancy Montreal school, but this is NOT how we treat patients at Hogwarts!” She scolded, before rounding on Neville. “And you, Professor Longbottom, what on earth will MInerva say? Did the pair of you stop to consider for one second that there are impressionable young eyes EVERYWHERE!?”

They both rushed to apologise, but Poppy cut them off with an angry sound. “What you get up to in the privacy of your own rooms is up to you, but I will not stand for this sort of behaviour in my ward. I suggest you both calm yourselves down and get to breakfast. Honestly, you’re grown men, yet you’re acting worse than teenagers! In my day, we knew to show a bit more restraint…” She continued muttering angrily as she stalked off.

Neville chanced a look at Blaise, and was pleased to see him looking as wrecked as he felt himself.

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

They stared awkwardly at each other for a moment before dissolving into hysterical laughter. Poppy’s entrance had been as effective as an ice-cold bucket of water to the face for dousing his arousal.

“So, um, do you maybe want to get breakfast? Together?” Neville asked, suddenly overcome with shyness. Despite what had just happened, he wasn’t exactly sure where things stood between them. It would probably have been better to talk first, rut later.

“Sounds good,” Blaise grinned, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “I should probably, you know,” he indicated his rumbled clothes, “go freshen up a bit first. I’ll meet you there though? At the staff table?”

“Yeah, sure. I should probably shower. That ointment feels kind of sticky.”

“Good idea. Um. Maybe I can come over later and, you know, check it’s all healing correctly?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

“So. I’ll save you a seat at breakfast. See you later, Nev.”

“Breakfast. Right. Yeah, see you later.”

Blaise turned to leave, but then at last minute, turned back and moved towards him. With a smirk, and quiet chuckle, he leaned down and pecked Neville on the cheek, “We’ll continue this later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Neville replied, grinning. He watched as Blaise once again slipped through the curtains, leaving him alone, but this time he wasn’t confused or angry. He was excited. Blaise had left, but with a promise of more. The rest of the school year was going to be very interesting, and who knew what else the future would hold for them both.


End file.
